


Loog and his One Fear

by Keyade



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Modern AU, None of your precious babies die, Superpowers AU, Urban Fantasy, everyone works together against the forces of evil, mythical creatures AU, the house leaders get along (somewhat), the three houses don't fight each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-21 21:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keyade/pseuds/Keyade
Summary: Garreg Mach University. That one dank college for ‘very special’ kids, founded in the dark ages and somehow still standing in the age of memes. Here, you can find literal angels (wings and all), edgelords who can actually turn into eagles, memelords who can actually turn into wyverns, Valkyries, Griffins, Mermaids, Gold...deer(what?) and all manner of shape-shifting humanoid weirdos with too much power. (And yes, real vampires and werewolves. Lame.)In a world where being not quite human is as normal as having a twitter account, 24 talented young adults have made it to The Prestigious Academy for the cream of the mythical crop. Between daily shenanigans, fighting evil and figuring out what creature the gatekeeper really is, the freshman class must deal with a darker force at work, one that threatens to destroy the calm of carefree school days...and maybe the entire world. Saving the world should be easy when we have the internet, right?





	1. Class Quiz Next Monday

**Author's Note:**

> Brcause my fulltime job requires me to be memelord and I need practice. 
> 
> Story starts with Claudimitri/Dimiclaude but will have lots of Sylvix, Hubert/Ferdinand and everything else tagged.

Byleth, most unfortunately, enters the lecture theatre before this particular presentation slide on the projector screen can be minimized: 

**Votes:**

Byleth is secretly 18: 30% 

Byleth is 30: 2%

Byleth is 3296: 20%

Time means nothing to Byleth for she has existed since time immemorial and watches over all forms of life: 58%

“It adds up to 110%,” Byleth comments, face blank. She sets her laptop down on the podium and pokes around for the HDMI cable. She’s wearing her weird coat, the one with sleeves that she doesn’t use because she’s cut holes in the sleeves for her arms. 

You can never trust anyone who does that. 

“Which is the right cable?” Byleth asks. 

“The one you’ve just plugged in, Teach,” Claude says, pointing to the projector screen. “Your presentation’s already up.” 

“Oh,” Byleth says. 

No one dares laugh, of course. The first slide says “Class Quiz Next Monday” in Times New Roman on a plain white background. 

Caspar and Sylvain howl in despair, but Byleth is deaf to their suffering. She spends 30 whole seconds looking for the ‘slideshow’ button. 

“This is why she’s at least 3000,” Hilda whispers. “Can’t technology and all, y’know.” 

Claude partly disagrees. It’s all an act, can’t you see? She’s got futuristic weapons of mass destruction hiding in the sleeves she doesn’t use. So she’s either a highly-evolved life form of 18 short years, or has existed since time immemorial. 

Also because Hilda has painted her antlers pink today. With nail polish. So what if it’s done very nicely with a cool champagne gradient and even glitter stars. Claude will never agree with someone who paints their beautiful _ golden _antlers pink. What the hell. It goes against his very principles. 

“The quiz will be about the seven types of Divinities and the defining characteristics of each type,” Byleth says. “Let’s revise them once so you remember them better, shall we?”

She scans the classroom, looking for an unfortunate soul. 

_ It’s gonna be Bernadetta, _ Claude thinks evilly. 

“Bernadetta,” Byleth says. “Can you name the seven types of Divinities?”

Bernadetta, to her credit, yelps and sways on the spot but doesn’t quite pass out. “A-angels,” she begins, looking like she’s mere seconds from barfing. She looks at Hubert of all people for validation and finds none. “U-Uh...D-demons, Gryphons, Avians, Dragons, Werefolk and Mer.” 

It’s really hard to imagine this poor girl doing Valkyrie work in the future. Don’t they have to...deal with the dead and dying and all? 

But Byleth only smiles encouragingly and nods. “Right as always,” she says, warmly, or at least warmly by Byleth standards. No fair, Bernie always gets the easy questions and the nice Byleth smiles. And Claude gets questions to his questions, if Byleth even entertains him at all. 

“Caspar, name five types of Avians,” she attacks, swift and deadly. She lands a critical hit on Caspar, who has no idea. Even though he is an Avian himself. 

“Uh...,” Caspar sweats, looking at Linhardt. Linhardt isn’t conscious, so he squints at the scrap of paper Ashe hurriedly scribbles.

“Thunderbird? And uh...Caladrius...and Griffin? Yeah, Griffin?” 

Ashe slaps his own face with his palm.

“Griffins are a type of _Gryphon_,” Ferdinand says indignantly, the Griffin feathers on his back bristling. “Really, Caspar? Lumping us together with you birds?” 

“Ferdinand,” Edelgard says. 

“Birds are...the best,” Ferdinand says, shrinking back into his seat. 

“Lysithea,” Byleth sighs. “Do you have the answer?”

Lysithea stands up to her full impressive height of five feet (not quite). 

“In the Black Eagles house, we have one Hraesvelgr, one Thunderbird and one Caladrius,” she scoffs. “There’re also Firebirds and Garudas, both which are not found in this year’s cohort. There are, however, some winged species which are commonly mistaken for Avians, but are actually of a completely different evolutionary origin. Succubi, Griffins, Valkyries, certain types of Werefolk and,” she flexes her surprisingly large wingspan, ever so accidentally hitting Lorenz in the face. “Wyverns, like myself.” 

Nothing less than the model answer. Claude is proud of his house and proud of his Wyvern species. Lysithea always makes them look like they have brain cells. 

“Very good,” Byleth says, clearly thinking so as well. 

Caspar eliminated, Byleth looks for her next target.

“Dimitri, what is the difference between conscious and instinctive Werefolk? 

Dimitri also stands up to answer the question because he is a polite guy with no chill, and Claude most certainly does not crane his neck to get a better look at his legs. Oh _Goddess_ do these legs go on forever. They are probably about as long as Byleth has lived, and they’re just so - 

“Gaaaaaaayyyy,” Hilda sings into his ear. 

“Legs,” Claude replies, unable to multitask. 

He may have said it a little loudly, because Dimitri half turns, confused. 

Hilda stabs him with her pink french nails before he can embarrass himself further. Dimitri turns back to Byleth and Claude can’t see his blue eyes anymore, which means Hilda did a terrible job of snagging him a seat where he supposedly could ‘ogle at cheeseboy to his heart’s content’. 

“Instinct-driven and consciousness-driven Werefolk are actually largely similar,” Dimitri begins in the style of a classic Dimitri ramble, where he talks a lot but says very little. He does sound smart if you’re not listening too carefully. For a moment, Claude almost thinks he’s as smart as Lysithea, before remembering that Dimitri’s very charm is appearing to have ten brain cells when he really has none. 

Cute.

“Contrary to popular belief, both kinds can control their transformations. Consciousness-driven Werefolk, like Sylvain and Felix, turn into smaller, more agile predators and have excellent control over their transformations. They can shift in and out of their animal form at will, expending little energy to do so.” Sylvain somehow takes the spiel as a promotional ad for himself and winks at Dorothea, Marianne and Petra. Ingrid hits him with her phone. Felix flips a finger. Dimitri smiles apologetically and Claude melts. 

“Instinct-driven Werefolk, like myself,” he continues, “Tend to transform into larger predators. We are stronger in general, but have less control over our transformations. If we’re not careful with our emotions, they can take over and...and...” 

Something catches in Dimitri’s throat. He clears it, but his voice grows weak. A shadow passes over his features as he looks down at his shoes and swallows. His hands seem to be shaking, or it could be a trick of the light. 

“...w-well, and...”

Felix scoffs. Several seconds pass in pregnant silence. 

Claude stands up. 

“And it takes a little while longer for them to transform back, but they eventually do when the threat is over and they’ve gotten sufficient food and rest,” he hears himself saying. He pretends to lean back and stretch. “That’s cool, but Wyverns are cooler. Want me to talk about them, Teach?”

“Nice save,” whispers Hilda. 

_ Nice save_, Byleth seems to say with her eyes. 

Poor woman, she’s been on this job for, what, two weeks? She can’t possibly have known about the Dimitri Moods. It’s not her fault. 

“Why don’t you come down and show us?” Byleth asks, taking Claude’s offer to change the topic like the smart person she is. 

Hey, the Prof asked, so it’s not like he can say no. 

He hops down the steps with a smile that’s all teeth and his hands in his pockets. Slowly and deliberately, he stretches out his entire wingspan, careful not to hit the people in the first row, basking in the ‘ooohs’ and ‘whoaaaaas’ from the class. Wings are nothing special, of course, half the class has them, but Claude knows his wings aren’t _ just wings_. They exceptionally large wings, curved exceptionally aerodynamically, exceptionally stunning even for his kind, because they are

...well, they’re completely gold. 

Most wings are black or white or brown, but his are a heavy, solid gold that glint a different shade in every kind of light, glittering like the sun on the Almyran sea, like the necklace of stars over Fodlan’s Throat. 

The messenger of the gods, his people used to say, raising him as high as the expectations they’ve piled on him. _ The Chosen have wings of gold. _

_ It is no wonder that he is born to the King. He will lead us to glory. _

He might have gotten kidnapped once or twice or_ twelve times _ as a kid for them, which is why he’s learnt to throw a good punch before he’s learnt to say his first complete sentence. He remembers getting smuggled across the Almyran border, a rucksack over his head, getting rescued at the cost of many Almyran lives, way too many. Getting cooed over by random human traffickers and his own alike. _ Incredible, exquisite, spectacular, how rare, how much are they worth? _

The class before him is, of course, oblivious to his inner soliloquy. Hilda, Raphael and Ignatz cheer in good cheer. Lorenz and Lysithea roll their eyes in perfect synchrony. Dimitri is unfortunately still staring at the floor, trapped in a world of his own. Ashe looks ready to ask for his autograph. 

“Dragons,” he begins with his best smile (his fakest one), “Are the rarest of the seven Divinities. The Dragon family consists of Wyverns and Hydras. We’re...well, I’d say about one in ten thousand. Rare as we are, there actually are three of us dragons in this year’s cohort.” 

“A first for Garreg Mach,” Byleth confirms. She looks suspiciously close to touching Claude’s wings, but she doesn’t, because you can’t just do that. 

Claude shuffles discreetly away from her and points into the crowd. “We’ve got Lysithea, who’s also a Wyvern like me. And Lorenz, who’s a Hydra. All in the Golden Deer house,” he adds, maybe preening a little. 

Lorenz looks slightly appeased.

Edelgard looks unimpressed. 

Dimitri looks at the floor. 

So Claude keeps his wings, snapping them back soundlessly in a swift motion. Byleth looks a little disappointed but doesn’t stare for longer than is appropriate. 

“We’re blessed with control over one of the elements, but we usually don’t discover which one it is until we’re in our late teens, if we ever discover them at all. It’s not like there’re a lot of people around to guide us, because there’re so few dragons in the world. But I guess Lorenz, Lysithea and I are lucky though to have already found our elements by chance.”

_ Which is how we even got into a school like Garreg Mach in the first place_, he thinks, but he doesn’t need to state the obvious. He stops talking, because he’s not about to reveal all their secrets to their competitors. They’ll find out in the interhouse tournaments, and no sooner than that. Annette raises her hand, but she doesn’t ask the question Claude obviously won’t answer. 

“What do dragons usually like?” she asks, scribbling in her notebook. 

“A good scheme,” Claude replies.

“Untrue,” Lysithea protests. 

“Most certainly not,” Lorenz agrees. “I, for one, like a good cup of rose petal tea and - ”

“Let’s begin today’s lecture,” Byleth says. “Please open the slides I’ve sent to all of you.” 

“Crap,” says Hilda, who hasn’t downloaded the slides and hasn’t even brought her laptop. Claude scoots back to his seat before she gets found out, like the great friend he is. 

************************************************************************************

Goldhorns are supposed to have uncanny luck, and while Hilda is now a Pinkhorn, Claude still manages to use Hilda the Pinkhorn’s luck to catch a particular tall blonde in the cafeteria. She blows on his hands for extra luck, waves goodbye and runs off with Marianne to paint her antlers yet another unacceptable colour. 

Dimitri is sitting by himself, which is pretty sad for a pretty boy. Claude bets half the cafeteria wants to sit with him, but not when he’s in one of his Dimitri Moods. Sylvain and Felix are at the next table, not so subtly keeping a watchful eye on their pack leader in case an unsavoury character like Claude tries to do him harm. 

Dimitri must be really deep in The Mood, because he doesn’t notice Claude until he steals a chunk of potato from his plate. 

Dimitri startles and a cherry tomato rolls off his plate with an absent-minded flick of his fork. 

“O-oops,” he says, trying and failing to catch it before it drops onto the floor. 

Claude laughs, and Felix half stands with an expletive and balled fists. He never quite gets to kill Claude though, because Sylvain hurriedly drags him away. 

Oh Sylvain. One day Claude will return the favour. 

“Mind if I sit here?” Claude asks, smooth as can be.

“Of course not,” says Dimitri, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. 

_ That’s supposed to be my specialty_, Claude thinks. _ Trademark infringement. _

And then he doesn’t know what to say. They look at each other, and Claude makes the mistake of actually looking into his eyes. He swallows, taps his fingers, and taps his foot. His wings are trembling a little - they always give him away, these bitches. Ah crap. He can’t remember any of his pre-prepped lines. So he shoves in a mouthful of food. 

“Thanks for saving me back there,’ Dimitri says first, blessedly oblivious to Claude’s inner turmoil. His voice is very soft, and warm, like marshmallows over a campfire. Like melting cheese. Yeah cheese. No, don’t think of cheese. What the hell, brain. 

“Ah, y’know, just looking for a chance to flex,” Claude lies. “Was nothing, really. Sorry for stealing your limelight.” 

Dimitri laughs, gentle and deep and melodious. Claude does not expect this attack and gets dealt a winding blow. Who gave him the _ right _ ? Claude is _ not _supposed to be the awkward one. Hilda will probably disown him now. 

“As if I’ll have any limelight with you around,” Dimitri says around a half-smile, and Claude is, miserably, dealt another crushing blow. The only reason he’s not dead on the floor yet is because he knows Dimitri doesn’t really intend to kill him, this is just Nice Dimitri being politically correct and perfectly oblivious, the Nice Dimitri he’s known since they were both sixteen. 

Nice Dimitri, Frustrating Dimitri, Sad Eyes but Won’t Say Why Dimitri - the cursed trinity that will keep Claude forever in the brozone. 

“Hey come on, these pretty wings can’t work a lance like you can,” Claude says, finally getting on the offensive. 

He stares at Dimitri’s ears rather pointedly to see if they turn red and _ voilah! _They do.

Dimitri:2, Claude:1 

“I-I’m not that good,” Dimitri mumbles. “Besides, it’s a useless skill. Purely recreational, you know.” 

“If you like it you like it,” Claude shrugs. “Not everything needs to have a use. It makes you look hella cool for sure.” 

Dimitri:2, Claude:2

Dimitri laughs self-consciously. “D-does it? I’d rather be able to fly.” 

“Rent a pegasus,” Claude suggests.

“They...don’t cooperate with me,” Dimitri sighs, but he does look a little brighter than he did a few minutes ago, when he was brooding alone over untouched food. 

“Ask me along next time,” Claude says, seeing an opening and striking like the amazing dragon he is. “I’m good with them. Bet I can even get them to like you.” 

Winking is way too obvious, so he opens his wings _ just _a little before snapping them closed again, letting a kaleidoscope of fractured light dance over the table for just a second, so subtle that it can all be taken for a subconscious fidget or a just a deep breath. A little wyvern trick that works on everyone, especially if your wings are extra, extra gorgeous. 

Sure enough, Dimitri’s eyes shift to his wings, but not for long enough. To come to think of it, he never really looks at them for long, never looks at Claude in general for long. While everyone else ogles and stares way more than is comfortable, Dimitri always seems as if he’s burned by the very sight. The blonde’s eyes are on the polished table, on his own polished shoes, on his watch and then his food, everywhere but on Claude. 

It always ends like this. 

Their conversations come to an abrupt halt, culled in their infancy by Dimitri’s strange unease, a cloud of suffocation hanging over them like the disquiet of old friends who’ve drifted apart, family disowned from each other or lovers who broke their oaths. 

Except there’s no such thing. Claude is pretty sure he doesn’t have amnesia, so he’s sure he doesn’t “know” know Dimitri, and they have no sort of shared past or old beef with each other. Dimitri is no more than a (very pretty) familiar face from high school and a very distant acquaintance, a sad but true fact proving that Claude doesn’t have nearly as much game as he thinks he has. 

They literally met for the first time in High School, never attended classes together, never hung out together, never had lunch together, barely saw each other once a week or even a month, in passing glances in the hallways and unfamiliar ‘hi’s at the school gates or bathrooms. By all rights, they’re complete randoms in each others’ lives, passersby with no agency to each other, as much of a chance encounter as any fellow commuter on a train ride or a person you walked past in a park, with no ability or reason or destiny to draw closer. 

(Well...there’s the fact that they both happened to be heirs to their respective jurisdictions. But that’s just about all they have in common, really.) 

So it doesn’t take a genius to figure that Dimitri, similarly, has_ zero reasons _ to be this dodgy around him. Claude would love to think that it’s because Dimitri can’t deal with his insurmountable charm and super on-fleek eyebrows (which Hilda did, by the way), but he’s a realistic man. He hates admitting that maybe he and Dimitri just have nothing to talk about, so maybe he’ll just admit that Dimitri probably finds his memes too annoying or his person too creepy or weird, but is too polite to tell him to fuck off. 

The thought of that just makes Claude sad. He thinks he might actually cry baby tears if Dimitri actually told him to fuck off, so he’s glad Dimitri isn’t a Felix. Goddess knows Dimitri is too pretty to speak in expletives, so she made him an awkward turtle who bows and blushes and has dodgy eyes. 

Dimitri now looks even less inclined to eat his meal than before Claude showed up, so Claude decides to cut the man a break. Felix and Sylvain are marching back anyway (only Felix is marching), and Claude estimates he’s got just about 15 seconds to make his great escape before Felix literally goes feral on him. And _ oh my Goddess _Felix’s 3-inch claws are already out. Claude is too beautiful to be mauled like this. 

He’s off to tell Hilda that Goldhorn luck only works if your horns remain gold. Or if you’re not dealing with the emo lion king and his entire pack of emos. 


	2. Loog and the something maiden whatever

Sylvain is looking for Felix. 

There’s no Felix scent anywhere. No, Sylvain isn’t dumb, he knows Felix’s natural habitat is the training arena, he just doesn’t know where the training arena is. Because it’s literally the third week of college freshman year, and Sylvain basically knows the way to the nearest cafeteria, the loo and the girls’ dorms. A real man has priorities. 

The Garreg Mach campus, for lack of a better word, is hella old, if that can even be used to describe something that’s been standing for more than a millenia. It has too many stairs and winding courtyards and too few elevators (which Sylvain very much wants to protest because this is terrible discrimination against non-winged species!). The campus even has a goddamn moat with an actual drawbridge, and said bridge gets drawn up every single day during curfew time at 11pm, leaving Sylvain stranded on the other side of the moat 15 out of 21 nights since he started living on campus. Nothing is more embarrassing than calling Ingrid to fly him in. She picks him up like a baby bird and just dumps him wherever from a drop of ten feet. If Sylvain didn’t have a jaguar’s landing instincts, he’d be long dead. 

And one time, Ingrid was ‘busy’ when he sent his SOS, so guess who came to pick him up? Edelgard. Yes,  _ The  _ Edelgard. That was also, coincidentally, the last time he ever missed curfew. 

In the middle of his fifth unsuccessful attempt to locate the training area, he scents Byleth approaching. It’s actually not too easy to scent Byleth because she’s hardly got a scent. If he had to compare it to something, it’ll be like morning dew or the air at a high place on a cold day. Crisp, colourless and formless, neither male nor female, completely non-indicative of her status in a pack and just rather unsettling to his jaguar nose in general. Ingrid thinks he’s just being a pervert when he tells her about it (as if he goes around sniffing his teachers!), but Felix and Dimitri nod in agreement. Byleth is weird and Ingrid is a peasant. 

“Heya Professor,” he calls, but that’s all he says. Byleth may be a whole head shorter than him, but something about her default mild expression makes Sylvain very wary of saying his usual lines. Call it a jaguar’s instinct, but in the three weeks she’s been their professor, he doesn’t even dare think an extra think about her shiny shirt and tiny shorts. (And lace tights. Are teachers even allowed to wear lace tights?) Even though he’d very much like to think many thoughts of them. 

A sickly sweet smell wafts close to his nose, and he sees that Byleth is holding a stalk of something to him, watching him expectantly.

It’s a...pitcher plant? 

“Wow,” Sylvain says hesitantly. Is this from the greenhouse? Why did Byleth pluck a pitcher plant from the greenhouse? 

Byleth clearly wants him to have it, though. 

“Thanks?” he says, accepting it. Byleth looks at his face very carefully for a few seconds before nodding to herself and turning to leave. 

“Wait, Professor!” Sylvain calls. “Do you know where the training arena is?” 

Byleth gives him another long look. “They’re where your combat trainings last week were,” she says plainly. 

_ Oh shit _ , Sylvain thinks belatedly. 

But Byleth simply points at the ground. For a moment, Sylvain wonders if it’s a strange way of telling him to go to hell. 

“Basement,” she says. 

“Gotcha,” Sylvain says, making a show of admiring the pitcher plant before scooting away fast the moment Byleth is out of range. 

******************************************************************************

There’s dubstep playing distantly from the training arena speakers when Sylvain enters. 

He’d been hoping to go a few rounds against Felix, but it seems that Felix is already in the middle of an intense match with Ashe. He supposes he could ask Petra or Caspar, but they look like they’re done for the day and heading for the locker rooms. They’re already painstakingly picking the dirt out of their feathers (or more like Linhardt is picking the dirt out of Caspar’s feathers for him), so it’ll be rude of Sylvain to ask them for a match now. 

Besides, the one thing Sylvain loves more than bad pickup lines is watching Felix fight.

He’s joined at the right time, because this definitely is the part where things start to get spectacular. Ashe is in a semi-transformed state, grey wings and talons out, but even so he’s quite small for a Griffin and is barely holding up against an untransformed Felix. 

Well, Felix’s got his claws out, but he always has his claws out. Sylvain has no idea how he holds his training sword like this. 

Their aggression-scents are clashing and they sting Sylvain’s nose, but - maybe it’s familiarity, maybe it’s a pack thing - Felix’s stormcloud scent is way stronger, enveloping the arena in the dangerously exhilarating, electrifying tang of battle. Sylvain feels his chest beginning to stutter and his senses beginning to hyperfocus. By pure instinct, venom begins to fill his fangs, his pupils start growing into vertical slits and the fine furs on his back begin to stand as his body tells him to fight. 

A packmate is in danger, and he’s facing a formidable enemy. 

Then his consciousness-driven brain tells him this is a goddamn training session,  _ chill out _ , and the moment of ecstasy passes. He sits on a bench and makes a loud whoop at Felix to make his spectatorship known, even though he’s sure Felix has also scented him the moment he entered. 

It becomes obvious after a few seconds who’s got the upper hand. Ashe is doing commendably well for a late-bloomer, but it’s his transformation is clearly rather unstable. As he takes into the air in an attempt to dive-bomb at Felix, one of his wings crumple for just a second, causing him to stumble and lose his opening. Ashe catches himself before he hits the ground, but he wastes precious time trying to regain his footing. Felix lunges and swipes at him, but Ashe dodges by a hair. Caspar yells encouragement from the sidelines, his pale blue wings springing out unexpectedly in his excitment and knocking over all of Linhardt’s things. 

But a lifetime of sparring with Felix tells Sylvain that he’s holding back a little. Felix doesn’t just swipe at Sylvain when they train - he barrels headlong with frightening speed, all teeth and claws and everything he’s got, his eyes bright and focused, his scent enough to make Sylvain dizzy. 

Man. The thought of it makes his spine tingle. 

Out in the arena, Ashe wipes the sweat from his forehead and breathes hard, stalling for a few moments as he thinks. Then he seems to make a decision and decisively pulls off his training jersey. He kicks off his shoes. 

Ooh, this is gonna be good. In the three weeks they’d known each other, Sylvain has not seen Ashe’s full Griffin form. 

Ashe’s small human frame seems to expand just a little and his wings grow longer. His feet change first, forming claws, then pads, then formidable lion hindlegs...until most of his body looks like a smaller version of Dimitri’s true form. But light grey feathers begin to sprout along his spine, racing up his back and over his wings and blooming along his neck, his jaw...until they reach his face, which is no longer a face, but a sharp-eyed, golden beaked eagle head. 

_ Wow _ , Sylvain thinks. He would  _ not  _ like to be up against a Griffin, ever. Like hello? Nothing this scary should be allowed to fly, seriously. 

Also, just for the record, nothing this scary should have such an innocent human form. You’d expect people like Hubert or Seteth to suddenly become a Griffin.  _ Not  _ Ashe. Ashe is the nicest dude ever who bakes them pies and stuff, but he’s apparently also  _ this thing _ . 

This is a crazy, crazy world. 

“We’re going true form now?” Felix asks.

Sylvain knows why he’s being so nice to Ashe. He wants Ashe to lend him the comics. Loog and the something maiden whatever. Nerds. 

“Yeah!” yells Ashe from high above, his lion tail swishing left and right as he tries to hover near the super high stadium ceiling. Sylvain would literally never get used to people talking in their true form. It should be banned. It’s not good for his fragile heart.

“Ok,” Felix consents, dropping his training sword. “Gimme a minute.” 

And then Felix does the thing, where he rips off his shirt over his head with one hand, the thing that Sylvain always sees in slow-mo. Sylvain swallows - hey it’s leftover venom from earlier, ok? - and then there are a few sparks going off haphazardly in his mind. He shifts a bit in his seat and suddenly his brain is supplying vivid memories of Felix straddling him with a sharp-toothed smirk, his hands on Sylvain’s heaving chest and his fierce scent taking over all of Sylvain’s logical processing functions.

“I win,” he’d always say, sweat rolling down his bare chest, grinning a genuine and relentless grin that he only ever shows Sylvain. In moments like this, Felix’s voice is always raspy from exertion, and Sylvain’s voice simply fails him. Then the moment always passes and Felix always gets up too soon, standing and hauling Sylvain off the floor with him. 

These days, Felix doesn’t win against him that often anymore, Sylvain can’t just let him win because Felix will know. Is it weird that Sylvain misses getting beaten to a pulp and then getting to look up at the One Crazy Felix Smile? 

It’s a normal pack thing, right? Right???

Sylvain squeezes his eyes shut to shake out that thought, but immediately hates himself for missing the sight of bare-chested Felix stretching out his muscles before transforming. (That’s always the best part, dang.) By the time he’s finished zoning out, Felix’s body is already tensed like a drawn bowstring, ready for a big leap. Sylvain knows that when he lands again, it’ll be on four legs, all dangerous grace and beauty. 

He’ll never get tired of watching Felix morph, not in this lifetime or the next. The wolf standing before him is seems to grow more elegant everytime he sees it, its midnight blue coat rippling with every agile motion. As children they’d groomed each other’s fur and Sylvain can still remember every single patch and how the smooth hairs tasted, but then they hit puberty and grooming became kinda awkward. So they stopped, because it’s just not an adult pack thing to do. 

Felix growls a challenge at Ashe, who descends upon him at rapid speed with terrifying outstretched talons. Felix shows all of his razor teeth and lunges with raw power, and the two grapple like this for several exhilarating turns. They’re going at it more seriously now, slashing and tearing at each other with literal tooth and nail, a smattering of fallen feathers and fur tufts on the floor. Ashe doesn’t seem very used to sustaining his Griffin form for long and flashes in and out of various semi-transformed states, but Felix is extremely adept at maintaining his form and it’s not even second nature to him - it’s first nature. 

Loud chants erupt from anyone who’s noticed this spectacular showdown. Someone (clearly not a man of culture) switches off the dubstep, which is a huge pity, because that’s  _ the  _ music for this mood. Linhardt has finally given up on trying to get junk out of the wings of someone who won’t stay still. He decides to clap in tired amusement instead. Sylvain doesn’t care to join in. He’s too busy holding his breath, watching Felix’s every move. 

A flash of fangs and claws. A blur of grey dancing through the air. A shattering roar. 

The Wolf wrestles the Griffin onto the floor as a cloud of dust settles around them. One, two, three...and the Wolf lets up, heaving as he sits on his hind legs and licks the scratches on his paws. 

Felix wins. 

The students around them cheer thunderously for both warriors as they shimmer back into their human forms. Ashe lies flat on the floor with his wings open and stares at the sky, but he’s alright, judging from the tired little grin on his face. Felix rolls up and Sylvain can see shallow cuts all over his neck, collarbones and chest. There’s even a small gash on his cheek, oof. 

Sylvain winces. Ashe definitely didn’t let Felix win easy this time. Sylvain congratulates himself on avoiding all trainings so far, and with that, avoiding ever going up against Ashe. Come on, his only asset is his outstandingly stunning face, there’s no way he’s letting Griffin talons anywhere near his gorgeous self. 

“Now I get to read the next book first,” Felix declares. 

Sylvain knew it. This is about their weeb shit. 

Ashe groans from his spot on the ground. He’s got his own impressive share of cuts and bruises and they’re probably there to stay for at least a week or two. Linhardt abandons Caspar and walks toward Ashe with a first aid kit instead. 

“Fine,” Ashe says. “Great fight.” 

“Great fight,” Felix agrees, moving to pick up his shirt from the ground, before realizing that Sylvain has already done it. 

“Sup, hot werewolf,” Sylvain says. 

“Sup, dumb thot,” Felix says, snatching his shirt over and pulling it over his head too fast,  _ way  _ too fast. “Cafeteria. I’m starving.” 

“Take a shower first,” Sylvain mimics in Ingrid voice with an Ingrid eye-roll and Ingrid hands-on-hips. “Then let’s get some disinfectant for those scratches.”

Felix smacks a sweat drenched towel straight in his face. It should be hella gross, but Felix’s tempestuous scent bursts in Sylvain’s nose, making him stumble backwards, more than a little dazed. 

Storms smell rather nice, Sylvain decides. 

***********************************************************************************************

Three whole servings of food later, Felix turns down Sylvain’s very enthusiastic offer to go check out the new club in town. He didn’t even look up from eating long enough to see Sylvain’s puppy eyes. 

“Gotta pack,” Felix says. 

“Pack?” Sylvain says, tilting his head. “You’re going somewhere for the weekend?” Without Sylvain? Oh, the heartbreak. 

“Yeah, home for a couple days,” Felix says.

This effectively gets Sylvain to stop making the eyes at him and get a bit more serious. 

“Everything alright?” he asks. 

Felix doesn’t just go home for the weekend. Heck, he didn’t even stay at home most of the time when they were in high school. The Fraldarius mansion has too much of Glenn in all its crooks and crannies, too many familiar scents at every corner, down every hallway and all over every picture on the walls. The shadow of Glenn follows Felix as he eats, sleeps, studies and trains, so Felix decided that renting an apartment far away with someone else who’s also avoiding a ghost (aka Dimitri) was the way to go. Of course, Sylvain and Ingrid were also part of this rather chaotic “independent living” adventure, but they’ve managed not to poison themselves (too much) or set anything on fire (for too long) throughout their high school years. Mostly thanks to Ingrid.

The Garreg Mach campus is even further from the Faerghus jurisdiction than their old apartment, so Sylvain would have expected Felix to be having the time of his life away from his dad and his brother’s ghost, and not rushing back in  _ week three _ . 

_ Something’s wrong _ , Sylvain’s trusty jaguar instincts say.

“It’s not me,” Felix says, and Sylvain releases the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “My dad has shit for me to do, apparently.” 

“Oh?” Sylvain says. “What’s happened?” 

“Nothing much,” Felix says, running his hand through has hair like he always does when he’s a bit vexed. His hair is down, still drying from his shower. Sylvain notices that it’s past his collarbones now. “Says his men saw something weird when they were out on patrol. He wants me to investigate.” 

“Where?” 

“Ailell.”

“Ailell? Aren’t there just...volcanoes or something there? What’s there to investigate?”

Felix shrugs, scrolling through his phone for a photo. He shows it to Sylvain. It’s supposed to be an aerial photo of somewhere in Ailell, but honestly all Sylvain sees are black stones and molten lava streams of death. Worst weekend getaway destination ever. 

“ _ Here _ , dumb shit,” Felix says, when Sylvain continues to look blank. He zooms in to a particular spot, where the lava has formed some sort of small circle. Not that much different from all the other rivulets around it, honestly. 

“...and?” Sylvain says, all ready to get judged.

“It’s a firebird flight circle,” Felix groans, throwing up his hands. “How the fuck did you get into this school?” 

“Hey,” Sylvain cries indignantly. “How am I supposed to know? Firebirds are like hella rare, ok? I have never seen a flight circle in my life!”

“Fine,” Felix snaps. 

“You sure about this though?” Sylvain asks, squinting at the photo again. “It looks like it could just be a cool patch of lava or something.” 

Felix gives him the glare specially reserved for stupid Sylvain questions. Alright, so he’s extremely sure. He’s grown up seeing them all the time, after all. Rodrigue is the only Firebird in the Faerghus Special Task Force, and has apparently been the only one for many generations.  Is that why he’s the commander? 

The circle, upon closer inspection, is actually three concentric rings of flames about six or seven feet wide. Alright, that  _ is  _ a little weird. They’ve learnt about this in Byleth’s class last week - they’re the distinctive rings a firebird leaves behind when it takes flight. Sylvain actually listens to hot teachers, ok? 

He knows why Rodrigue would find it suspicious though. Nobody lives in Ailell. And Firebirds are the next rarest divinities after Dragons, so it’s weirder still that there’ll be traces of Firebird activity so far off the grid. Whoever it was clearly didn’t want their flight circles to be noticed, which is why they chose this fiery hellhole in the first place. 

“My dad thinks it could either be some dumb teens messing around a dangerous area, or it could be actually some illegal shit,” Felix says. “Either way, he’s told me to poke around and report. Fucking fantastic.” 

“Alone?” Sylvain says incredulously. Rodrigue’s gotta be kidding, right? The place is dangerous enough for winged, highly trained military personnel. Felix is a non-winged grouchy college kid. 

Felix runs his hand impatiently through his hair again. “He doesn’t wanna send his usual squadron because they patrol Ailell all the time. So whoever’s there probably knows what they look like and when they’ll show up and all. So I need to check it out on foot. And no, not alone.” Felix sweeps his closet and stuffs all his things into his bag like he’s actually trying to destroy them before throwing a letter at Sylvain. 

It has the stamp of the governor’s office. Sylvain looks at the addressee (Adjutant Sylvain Jose Gautier) with massive doubt. Has his nightly clubbing gone so far as to catch the attention of Dimitri’s dad? Is this classified as an actual crime now? Is he going to jail for his thottery?!    
  


“You’re coming with,” Felix says. “ And the boar. And the Duscur bear. Official summons from the Governor of Faerghus, so don’t even think of squirming out of this one.” 

Wow, thanks, Sylvain is slightly offended by this. Is he the type of asshole to squirm out of the noble duty of serving his jurisdiction and helping his friends? Is he? 

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier!” he settles for whining. Geez, beautiful people have a life, you know! He’s got that new club in town to visit. 

“It was in your fucking email two days ago, dumbass,” Felix snaps, giving him a shove. “Shut up and pack. Bring your heat gear if you don’t want your ass to catch on fire.” 

“I’m always on fire, baby,” Sylvain winks, and Felix throws his hiking boots. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashe: https://i.etsystatic.com/11082453/r/il/9cbc4e/1642760337/il_794xN.1642760337_l6d1.jpg
> 
> Tell me your theories about where this is going, I love hearing about them! Next chapter is about dorm room arrangements feat Hubie & Ferdie :)

**Author's Note:**

> Do leave kudos or comments if you found this entertaining, it motivates me more than you can imagine!! Tell me anything you want - what you thought about it, what your theories are, what you'd love to see, how you think I can improve, any typos you spot etc. Reading your comments is literally my favourite thing to do. 
> 
> And come yell with me @keyadeart on Twitter / @keyade on Tumblr! Until next time!!


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